Rain on the Rim

The fifth day began too hot and too still. By early afternoon the sky above the rim had gone the colour of a bruise, and the air smelled suddenly of wet dust. Every animal in the canyon was moving the same direction, which is to say up and away from the wash, and Polly, who is not a fool, went with them.

Then the rim let go. Rain fell on the flat rock country above the canyon, found nowhere to soak in, and came over the edge in a dozen places at once. For about an hour the walls of Tséyiʼ carried waterfalls that had not existed that morning and would not exist that evening, water dropping the whole height of the cliff in long ragged ribbons.

Below, the dry wash filled and turned the colour of milky tea. This is why nobody builds on the sand, said the raven, who had reappeared to enjoy the weather. This wash is a road for eleven months and a river for one afternoon. The whole trick of living here is knowing which of the two you are standing in.

By evening the water was already sinking away into the sand, and the canyon smelled green. Along the floor, in small fields tucked against the walls, the corn stood up straighter, and in an old orchard of peach and apricot trees every leaf was dripping and clean. One hour of rain had watered the whole canyon for the month ahead.